Disclosure
by starsareFALLING
Summary: Update? No wayyyy. "For the longest time, she can't move. Despite her racing mind, despite her desperately pounding heart, her world — the entire singing, dancing, spinning, Broadway musical universe of Rachel Berry — has come to a standstill." Review!
1. Quinn

Quinn finally comes clean. Just a little something. An attempt at realism. Lol.

Dunno how well it worked, but I think it turned out formidably. Agree or disagree?

* * *

"Why do you hate me so much?"

Under any other circumstance, she would have responded with a witty, split-second insult. She would have picked out the first thing her eyes fell upon and ripped it to shreds with her words. She would have torn her apart. She would have said something disarming and painful, watching in satisfaction as the agonizing insecurity began to burn through her eyes. She would have said something hilarious, something that she could brag about and spread all over campus, something that would attach itself to her persona like a tattoo, something she could never escape.

She would have said something completely untrue.

Today, staring down at her, towering over her smaller, vertically-challenged frame, she would have said, "Because you're butting in where you don't belong, _gremlin_. Keep your claws off my man." Or something equally as ungrounded and snarky, and she would have been satisfied. It would have been a feat, something to be proud of. 'Dwarf' and 'midget' were hardly jokes anymore. 'Gremlin' attacked both her height and her features. Short and ugly—two birds with one stone. It would have been a beautiful injury, and it would have caused irreparable damage.

Under any other circumstance, she would have called her a gremlin. She would have stayed only long enough to watch her heart shatter, and then she would have turned to leave, and she would have been sated and content, knowing that she had won another round.

But today, when her eyes are already so full of pain, and she's so vulnerable that she just might break down if she even so much as blinks, she can't force the words past her lips. She can't bear to shove another lie down her throat when it's so obvious she's been choking them down for so long that she can no longer breathe. For the life of her, she can't say a word. She can barely look at her. She can't stand to look into those eyes, knowing that all the pain they hold is her greatest masterpiece, the result of all her jealous frustration and anger and sadness.

Today, when her eyes beg a reprieve and the wounded sadness that permeates her very being grips Quinn's heart, worlds elude her.

She is still and silent for an immeasurable time, wracked with indecision. What should she do? Should she stay, and risk hurting her even more? Should she leave, hurting her still, but on accident? The decision is made for her. She can't leave. Her feet are leaden and immobile. She is paralyzed. So, she stays, but what should she say? Words do damage—irreversible, irrevocable, irremediable damage.

Insulting her would kill her, but the truth would destroy her…

She doesn't speak at all.

Rachel fills the silence, wavering, unsteady, searching for anything that might placate her. "Finn is yours." Her voice pleads, her eyes pained and earnest. "You already have him, and we both know that he's not going to leave you for _me_. Why do you have to make me miserable? Don't you think I'm already miserable enough, knowing that I'll never have the one person I want?" Her voice is broken and distraught, tortured, and she fights to stay strong, but she fails. Her chocolate eyes shine with passion and anguish, and Quinn can't bear it. She wants to stop her, to beg her to forgive her for all the terrible things she's done, all the times she's hurt her, but Rachel's not finished.

A glimmer of determination shows through her pain. She tries to fight her tears, restraining a sob, putting everything she has into exerting the last of her strength. "Is that what you want to hear?" she asks. "Do you want me to admit that I'm a loser? That I go home and cry every night because you taunt me and you make me feel like _nothing_? Everybody already knows! You don't have to prove that you're still better than me." Finally, her resolve gives in. She bursts into tears. Something in her posture shatters, maybe her will, maybe her strength, but for the first time, she drops her head and she sobs. She closes her eyes and covers her face with her hands and whispers, "Everybody already knows."

Quinn's grasp on reality is nonexistent. Standing there, dumb and helpless, ineffably guilty, she has never hated herself so much in her life. Every single self-depreciating moment she has ever had pales in comparison. Every thought about her illegitimate affairs, every thought about the steadily increasing numbers on her scale… Everything, even together, means nothing.

She isn't sure how long she stands there watching her cry. It feels like an eternity, but only just a moment. It feels as though the universal clock has stopped ticking, but time continues at a blinding pace. Apologies and self-deflagrations race through her mind_. _

_How did this happen?_

Eventually, something in Rachel's demeanor changes. Slow moments pass as she coercively fights her tears, forcing them back and wiping them away, attempting to compose herself. With her eyes on the floor, she shakes her head, embarrassed, ashamed. "You can do whatever you want, Quinn," she whispers. "I can't stop you. I can't change your mind, and I can't make you like me." She raises her eyes then, defeated, hopeless, utterly resigned, and Quinn's chest seizes. Her throat tightens, aching with the hollow warning of tears. "I just want to know why."

Guilt makes people do irrefutably ridiculous things, Quinn realizes. It makes them hide their face, it makes them cry, it makes them beg for forgiveness, but it also makes them sleep with their boyfriend's best friend on a fat day, and when they turn up pregnant, it makes them swear on their grave that the father is who everyone expects it to be, even though they never had sex. It makes them hate themselves every single day of their lives, and it makes them wonder if they'll ever get into Heaven. It makes them spill secrets they never thought they would tell, even though it would completely destroy them if anybody ever found out.

Before she can even stop to think about it, those piercing, passionate, heart-wrenching brown eyes have broken through every single carefully-constructed defense she ever built against Rachel Berry, and the words she could never bear to say flood into her mouth. From the deepest depths of her mind, hidden behind all her troubles—Finn, the baby, Puck, her parents, Glee, the Cheerios—the truth comes out.

"Why do I hate you?" she asks. Her voice is pathetic and ashamed, even to her own ears.

Rachel sets her jaw, her brow furrowed, preparing herself for the blow.

Quinn laughs at the façade of strength, quietly, hysterically, and tears sting her eyes. She really has damaged her beyond repair. Why? Why does she hurt her? Why does she _hate_ her? She shakes her head, fixes her eyes on the ceiling to stem the tears, and swallows her pain. "Because I don't," she says.

The brunette appears confused, but the barriers have been battered to the ground, and Quinn is far too gone to stop now.

She drops her eyes, seemingly for miles, until they meet hers. She needs to _see_ her when she says it. She needs it to be _real_. She needs to look into her eyes, and know that it's worth it. "I don't hate you, Rachel. I've never hated you." Doubt permeates Rachel's eyes, but it doesn't matter. She'll see. When it's all said and done, she'll see. Quinn smiles, but it's pained, and wry humor and self-contempt fill her chest. "I hate the fact that I _don't_ hate you," she says, "that I _can't_ hate you, no matter what you do. Take Finn, take Puck—I wouldn't hate you for it. I wouldn't hate you for _taking_ them. I'd hate that you were _with_ them." Tears flood her eyes. It's now or never.

"I'd hate that you picked them… over me."

When the words are out, and they hang in the silence, and an emotion so inscrutable and inexplicable washes over Rachel's face, her eyes shining and wide, and disbelief weighs her jaw, her lips parted and trembling, she feels as though it's a dream. It must be a dream. Nightmares aren't supposed to happen in real life—but it is real. She can tell by the pounding of her heart, so hard she begins to shake. She can tell by the tears on her cheeks and the breathlessness that stills her lungs. She can tell by the unnerving weightlessness that follows telling the truth.

To make matters worse, she can't stop talking. She wants more than anything to leave, to run, because if she stays any longer, she might not make it out alive; she might break down completely, and be so thoroughly shattered that she might never put herself back together, but she can't stop. In a pathetic, last-ditch effort and self-preservation, her lips continue without her consent.

"Are you happy now? You finally have something over me." She tries to smile, but the effect is fake, and the words feel forced, torn from her throat. As tears spill from her eyes, she mimics the rumor that's sure to spread, holding herself together with every ounce of strength she has left. "'Did you hear? Quinn Fabray is pregnant. President of the Celibacy Club, perfect Christian, and, oh, yeah—she's in love with a _girl_.'"

The truth settles in the air with the weight of a wrecking ball. She can't breathe. She can only stare into Rachel's eyes, dying each and every second, watching as the doubt drains away and comprehension settles in. She can only watch as her lips tremble, moving without sound—the lips that she's dreamt about and fantasized about, the lips that, even now, she can't help but yearn to take with her own, kissing her with all the love she has disguised for so long as hatred. She can only watch, helpless, hopeless, vulnerable and utterly alone, as the girl she's secretly loved since the seventh grade prepares to reject her, just like she knew she always would. Rachel would never want a Lima loser like her…

"Quinn—"

She's longed for so long to hear her say her name with such tenderness, with such soft emotion, but she can't stand her pity. Faced with it now, she can only shake her head, pleading with her to stop. She'd never shown Rachel mercy when the tables were turned, but she begs with her eyes for a reprieve, amnesty from the pain her words will bring. Rachel falters, though just for a moment. Her breath catches as she attempts to speak once more.

Quinn closes her eyes. Can't she see that her rejection would kill her?

She can't stay long enough for Rachel to get the hint—so she runs.

She turns from those soft brown eyes, from those trembling lips, and she runs. She wills her ears into deafness as tears cascade down her face, praying that she will be spared, that anything Rachel calls after her won't be heard.

She runs, and she runs, and she runs, but she can't escape her.

Rachel Berry flows through her veins. She beats in her heart. She races in her pulse. She invades her dreams, she plagues her thoughts, and she can _feel_ her inside. She can't escape her, and now she'll never be able to face her again.

* * *

That button is there for a reason, so make use of it. :]

If you convince me enough, maybe I'll write a companion piece from Rachel's point of view. :P


	2. Rachel

Oh, my god. It's amazing. An update. Took long enough, right?

To everyone who's been waiting, you have my sincerest apologies. I know I've been out of the action for a while, but I hope you can forgive me. I kind of lost myself there for a while. Apparently, I don't adjust well.

But, anyway, here it is. Chapter two. It's definitely a lot different than the first one, soooo.. I'm sorry. I hope you like it anyway.

* * *

For the longest time, she can't move. Despite her racing mind, despite her desperately pounding heart, her world—the entire singing, dancing, spinning, Broadway musical universe of Rachel Berry—has come to a standstill. For once, there is silence.

No Liza, no Idina. Just silence. Incomprehensible, unbreakable, piercing silence.

The world has come to an end. Pigs have flown; Hell has frozen. Her unstoppable mind has finally met its immovable object, and the result is the farthest thing from pretty. Her brain has all but shut down. The inner mechanisms, all the bits and pieces, the quirks and schemas, have all been destroyed, so completely obliterated that the neurological wreckage can neither be distinguished, sorted, nor organized, nor even donated to an environmentally-friendly recycling facility. And she still doesn't understand exactly how it happened.

One conversation, that's all it was; a chance engagement. A coincidental encounter; a mere ten minutes of conflict, and the very truths of her existence were called into question. For the first time in a very long time, she feels lost. She feels as though the world has dropped from beneath her feet; as though the rise and the peak and the incline have come, but the rollercoaster does not cease to fall, eternally hurtling toward oblivion, with no end in sight.

For countless moments, she is stock-still, nearly faint, lightheaded and dizzy. She struggles to control her thundering heart, only vaguely aware of the passing of time, wondering just how long it's been since reality collapsed, stripping her of all certainties and leaving only the insecurities and vulnerabilities behind. She feels as though she's inside out; all that's real has vanished, and all that was true has been rejected. Her mind is fuzzy with confusion. It takes considerable effort just remembering to breathe.

Eventually, however, the disorientation begins to lessen. Perceptible by degrees, the fog begins to fade, and her mind begins to clear. The checkerboard floor separates into blacks and whites, the walls are rebuilt with bricks, and peripheral sights and sounds return. Knowing that, soon, there will be no choice, no longer an impenetrable stillness to lose herself in, she attempts to reach out and take hold of what little is left of her reality.

The empty rehearsal room swims before her, in and out of focus. She blames it on the tears that still linger in her eyes, cold on her cheeks, just starting to dry. Logically, she knows that she couldn't have been standing there very long, but it feels as though eons have passed without her notice. Though she is undeniably alone, her rapt attention is held. She is immobile, motionless, and mystified, staring into space, fixated on the memory of a face that is no longer there.

"_I don't hate you, Rachel."_

At the first note, the very hint of melody in her voice, she is immediately overcome.

The words flood into her mind like whitewater rapids, rushing and racing through her brain. Each syllable is a physical force, so powerful that her body has still ceased to tremble, and even though she doesn't think she could ever forget what had been said, the surge of replicated speech doesn't cease. Her voice rebounds, rewinds, and plays over and over again, endlessly echoing in her head.

"_I've never hated you."_

"_I hate the fact that I _**_don't_**_ hate you, that I _**_can't_**_ hate you, no matter what you do."_

Try as she might to fight it, her initial response is euphoric. Her effort to stem the rising tide of unbridled elation is futile. If her heart could sing, it would be belting out a tune for all that it's worth. Warm, tingling optimism settles over her, and the raincloud of her life suddenly has a silver lining. Quinn doesn't hate her. She likes her, even if only a little bit. She—she _loves_ her. That was what she meant, wasn't it?

"_I'd hate the fact that you were _**_with_**_ them."_

The implications of the blonde's words make her heart soar, but the gravity of apprehension restrains her rising spirits.

Maybe she had heard wrong, so tired of insults and hurtful words that she'd imagined it. Maybe it was all a cruel joke, carefully constructed to do exactly what it had already successfully done, to shake her up beyond repair, and, when she finally broke down, use it against her. Maybe she was in the middle of a horribly wonderful nightmare. Or maybe she had fallen asleep over too much schoolwork and followed a little white mammal down the rabbit hole, because the notion that Quinn Fabray would ever be interested in her, for any reason other than to torment her, is entirely too impossible to be real. It is incongruously profound, unsounded, and it makes absolutely no sense—yet, somehow, inexplicably, wholeheartedly, she knows. She didn't hear wrong; it isn't a dream. The pain, the embarrassment, the utter shame and the tears in her eyes had been the proof.

Unquestionably, she knows, and her heart is screaming it in her chest. Quinn is in love with her.

"_I'd hate that you picked them… over me."_

Torn, displaced and confused, still, she hesitates. She wonders if it's really possible—if dreams like that really do come true. She wonders if she should believe; if, after all the laughter and the insults and the degradation, she could really trust her. She wonders if it's even worth it to think about, to _wonder_, and wishes she didn't feel so naïve, thinking that Quinn would ever really have any benign feelings for her, let alone _love_ her, after everything she's done to ensure her misery. Even if she did feel something, she wonders, who's to say that she would even want to waste her time trying to be with her? There would be so many obstacles to overcome, so many problems to face… Relentlessly, tirelessly, hopelessly, she wonders, and she doesn't understand, still hung up on the past.

How could you do all those things to someone if you didn't hate them?

"_I hate the fact that I _**_don't_**_ hate you, that I _**_can't_**_ hate you, no matter what you do."_

"_I'd hate that you picked them… over me."_

Though solidified by repetition, like fire rushing through the circuits of her brain, she is uncertain, afraid to believe.

There was so much that was left unsaid; so much implied and so little explained; so much she can't be sure of. Clarity perpetually eludes her, and torrential frustration wells inside, both at Quinn for running off without even a modicum of explanation and at herself for not stopping her.

In the aftermath, she wishes that moment had been different. She wishes that she could have forced herself into action, willing herself to speak, to do something, _anything_—anything at all, because the only thing she did, the only thing she could do, the quiet utterance of her name that had shaken as it passed through her trembling lips, had been nothing short of pathetic. It had been weak and unhelpful, and probably the last thing Quinn wanted to hear, having just confessed something infinitely more problematic in her already convoluted life.

Guilty, she wishes she could have said something meaningful or worthwhile; something that would have been a comfort to her. She wishes she could have told her that everything was okay, that she forgave her, and that, even if she wasn't completely and utterly in love with her, she would never use information like that against her. She wishes that she had been brave enough to do what every cell in her body was screaming at her to do, to move towards her and take her into her arms and hold her, and be the shoulder she needed to cry on.

Despite her fear and the wariness that lingers inside at the idea of letting her guard down, she feels herself giving in. She wants to believe everything she said—everything she didn't say, all the implications. She wants to believe that she doesn't hate her; the impossible notion that she might actually _love_ her. She wants to believe that she can close her eyes, say, "I love you too," and the past will just fade away…

But even if she does, it still doesn't seem to fit.

Quinn Fabray. Perfect, popular, heart-wrenchingly beautiful Quinn Fabray—in love with Rachel Berry? There is no way. To even begin to believe, Rachel would have to check herself into a mental health clinic. Why would anyone as flawless and ridiculously gorgeous as Quinn want anything to do with hyper-assertive, ineffably annoying, brown-eyed, pint-sized Rachel Berry? She would have to be out of her mind. Even if she does secretly happen to admire her incontestable musical talent, any imagined feelings of fondness she may harbor, especially those bordering on _love_, are a bit much to imagine.

Countless thoughts rush rampantly through her mind, and the clock continues to tick.

Finally, Rachel drops her eyes, letting the memory of the hazel depths that had stared back at her so helplessly dissipate, and a heavy sigh escapes her. Frustrated, she realizes that she's only running in circles. She can think and think all she wants, deny what she heard, hope that it was all true, wish she could be certain a thousand times over, and, in her endless musings, never come to a conclusion. Thinking won't get her anywhere, and, honestly, she knows that none of it really matters. Despite the teasing, the insults, the ridicule and the humiliation; despite the impossibility of the notion and how incredibly fantastic it all seems; despite everything working against her, it doesn't matter. If she could bear the insults and the slushies in silence, she can bear to forgive them. She can look past their differences and put the past behind her.

After all, love makes people do irrefutably crazy things. Rachel knows that better than anyone. It makes them smile, it makes them laugh, it makes them feel as though nothing in the world could ever bring them down, but it also makes them jealous, irresponsibly, thoughtlessly so, to the point where they try everything they possibly can to gain the upper hand, attempting to seduce a boy they fooled themselves into thinking they cared about, then giving up and rebounding with his religiously-guilty, uninterested best friend, simply to have someone to fill that empty place reserved for the one person who will never want them. It makes them cry themselves to sleep, and it makes them suffer countless weeks of humiliation without a word of retort, hiding their tears. It makes them wish on stars and hold their breath whenever that special someone just happens to pass by, and it drives them absolutely crazy. It makes them realize how incredibly stupid they're being and take off running.

Of course, only after she sprints out of the room and hurries down the hall, her skirt fluttering and fanning uncomfortably higher with each hastened motion, does she realize that acting so rashly is certainly imprudent. She has no idea where Quinn went, nor the direction she took to get there—but Rachel Berry has never and will never give up without a fight. Determination steels her resolve.

Lockers rush by in blurs of color, the floor beneath her feet gleaming, squeaking beneath her absurdly inappropriate Dockers. Her eyes scan the hallways and the windows, classroom doors left ajar, distinguishing and scrutinizing any possible escape Quinn might have found appealing. She rounds the nearest corner, barely slowing to make the sudden turn, and picks up the pace. Through the empty halls, there is a silence she feels almost guilty breaking, but she ignores the discomfort and pushes ahead, cutting down the next adjoining hallway, desperation slowly infecting the blood surging through her veins. McKinley isn't that big; she's running out of school.

She nears the end of the corridor, and her eyes begin to burn with the threat of tears. _Where is she?_

Almost as if the Broadway gods were listening, rewarding her for her devout practice and faith, they send her a sign. Before she treads the last yards of the hall, two people she never thought she'd be so grateful to see, both clad in head-achingly brilliant red and sporting immaculate ponytails, intercept her. Cheerleaders! Better yet, Brittany and Santana. Approaching them at a rapid speed, Rachel notices, thankfully, that neither of them appears to be bearing a slushie. Stopping just short of careening into them, she meets Santana's disgusted recognition and Brittany's surprised, polite smile with overwhelming relief, so intense that it seems to radiate from her body, apparent in her shaking hands and wavering breath.

The Latina cheerleader before her grimaces with distaste at her appearance, ready to fire off an insult, but Rachel stops her short.

She raises her hand, effectively silencing her, and ignores the indignant fire she earns in return. "Where's Quinn?"

Irate, immensely detesting the other brunette's newfound backbone, Santana crosses her arms. "Like we would tell you, Sasquatch."

Rachel clenches her fists, and suddenly remembers why she dislikes Santana so much. She is outright insufferable—even more so than she herself, no matter what the rest of the Glee club thinks. Despite her annoyance, she tells herself it doesn't matter, and lets the insult bypass her thoughts. She needs to find Quinn, and she knows that if she wants to make any progress, soon, she might just be reduced to begging.

However, her emotions get the best of her and she turns her attention from Santana to her partner, planning on giving the best performance of her life, imploring her silently with desperate doe eyes, but it seems as though the blonde needs no further incitation.

Brittany offers a simple smile. "She ran outside a few seconds ago. You should check the football field."

Nearly tempted to laugh as she races off, finally sure of her direction and catching the incredulous glare Brittany receives from her other half, Rachel mentally thanks whoever is listening for the infinite depth of the blonde's unprejudiced kindness. "Thanks, Brittany!" she calls over her shoulder, her voice light for the first time since her emotionally turbulent encounter with Quinn. Finally, things are in her favor.

Now, she only has to find her.

The few remaining halls are traveled far too quickly, like quicksilver streaking by, and she's pushing open the heavy steel doors of the gym with the force of her whole body before she can even determine just how fast she's been running. The alarmingly gray sunlight of Lima assaults her immediately, uncomfortably bright and beaming, and she squints against the glare. Even half blind, she can see that the field is empty. The bleachers on either side are stark and silver, free of life. Disappointment begins to swell, liquid and aqueous behind her eyes, and the stillness she had been so deeply immersed in before returns, blown in softly by the wind. The butterflies in her stomach slowly die, a sinking and acidic feeling. She's not there. All that running, all that worrying, every painstakingly uncertain thought—and she's not there.

Displacement and vertigo threaten the edges of her perception. Once again, her world has been turned upside down.

Silence creeps in, but amidst the fading whistle of the breeze, something haunting and familiar reaches her ears. She reacts with a start, surprised, and the suffocating stillness recedes. Hopeful anxiety sharpens her focus. Though low and muffled, under the struggle of being kept quiet, she recognizes the refrain of someone softly weeping.

She tracks the sound as best as she can, silently thankful for her deceptively discriminative auditory senses. As if following an invisible rope, a single wave of sound, she searches the field once more, but her eyes are eventually drawn away, and they settle on a smaller, less prominent building in the distance; a weather-beaten janitorial shed, just a bit farther past the gymnasium, standing amidst a small patch of derelict grass hastily overlaid with a slab of concrete. As it wilts against the mid-winter wind, she recognizes this particular shed, having described it in vivid detail on the list of Places To Avoid At All Costs she'd put together during her freshman year at McKinley. She'd heard numerous sordid details regarding 'The Jim'—aptly named after the only staff member to use it, McKinley's longtime landscaper and field caretaker—and, to this day, remains perpetually cautious of straying too near. Supposedly, it is home to a great deal of debauchery, and morally questionable behavior regularly occurs within its murky depths. In the busier months, it even requires reservation.

A shiver of apprehension passes through Rachel's body. 'Avoid at all costs,' the list had said, but as she surveys the little shack, grimacing but determined, she realizes that, today, now, the cost of staying away would be too much for her to bear. She has to know.

The grass rustles under her feet. Feather-light and strangely unyielding, it urges her toward the shed. Her heart beats wildly in her chest, far too quickly to be healthy, approaching increasingly dangerous levels with each step. From her previous and current vantage points, the side of the shack parallel to the gymnasium persistently evaded her immediate vision, too far from the building to be seen, but, undoubtedly, with more certainty than she's had all day, she knows that hidden spot is her destination. That's where she'll find her. Even if she didn't feel it pounding in her chest, screaming in her veins, the intermittent outbreak of quiet sobs is unmistakable as she nears. She takes a breath, pausing beneath Jim's miniscule shadow. It's now or never.

Hesitantly, she follows the melancholy strain of grief around the corner, and there, low on the ground, her back against the wall, knees drawn and head in her hands, hopeless and defeated, is the source of all her trouble. And for the life of her, Rachel doesn't know what to do.

She has never seen her so broken. Even when things had first started spiraling out of control, finding out she was pregnant, being kicked off the Cheerios and joining Glee, Quinn had been so strong. Despite everything that was thrown at her, she had faced it all without indignity, only relentless determination and an arrogant façade. But now, it seems, as her impervious veneer collapses and crumbles away, all her strength has abandoned her. She weeps. With her face buried in her hands, Rachel can't see the tears, but she knows they must be there, spilling down her cheeks, heavy and pained and seemingly endless, finally exposed after months of repressed misery. The tremble that travels her spine, settling to quiver in her shoulders, and the catch that halts the movement of her chest every few seconds breaks Rachel's heart.

As useless as it is, it slips past her lips before she can stop it, barely a whisper, tremulous and uncertain; pathetic. "Quinn…"

At the sound of her voice, the blonde's body tenses, wary. Her sobs die into remnant hiccups, but the pain is too powerful to be pushed away completely, lingering in her chest, and for a moment, she is silent and still, struggling to breathe, pushing through the tears. There is a part of her, deep inside, that lights up at Rachel's voice, suddenly hopeful and full of warmth, and she wants nothing more than to give in, to surrender to whatever the other girl is willing to offer, but shame and disgrace keep her silent and unmoving, stubborn and unyielding.

Even so, she can't bear to show the brunette anymore cruelty. She pleads for mercy. "Please, Rachel," she whispers, and her voice is rough with tears, but infinitely soft with the hushed tones of defeat. She drops her hands from her face, listless, hopeless, knowing there is no escape, and crosses her arms over her knees, her knuckles white and shaking as her hands grip her arms. She allows her head to fall, resting limply against the them, and the tears fall freely. Though she knows in her heart that she really doesn't want Rachel to leave, she still can't bear her rejection. With an uncharacteristically tender tenor lacing her voice, she begs her to go. "Leave me alone."

Guilt races through Rachel's veins, and she can only stare helplessly as Quinn continues to cry. So tormented by the pain in her voice, she is almost tempted to listen, to turn and go, leaving her to her tears—but she can't. Try as she might, she can't. She cannot ignore the slow, stirring ache in her arms, the tension filling her hands, the invisible force urging her forward. The physical need to touch her, to hold her, calm her, to comfort her is rushing and irresistible, completely encompassing, flooding her senses, and, even if she wanted to, she knows she would not be able to force herself away. Though, intuitively, she realizes that, even if her earlier confessions were true, even if some deep, dark, completely deranged part of the ex-cheerleader does care for her, her comfort, especially her touch, is not entirely welcome, she doesn't care. She doesn't move. The blonde may not want her there, but she is determined not to leave her when she needs someone the most.

For the first time since she can remember, she squares her shoulders, takes a breath, and blatantly disobeys her.

"No." She tries for strength and conviction, even a hint of confidence, but still her voice shakes, softer than she intended and utterly weak.

Despite her vocal frailty, she gives in to the will of her instincts and takes the first halting step forward. The second follows slowly, and then a third, and she grows bolder as she moves, increasingly intrepid, until, reaching the other girl, pausing just out of her personal space, she skirts the edge of the concrete beneath her feet and kneels, settling herself between her fading, cheer-worn tennis shoes. The blonde's silent tears continue, and Rachel frowns, noticing the dark splotches of moisture on the thighs of her jeans and the damp graininess of the cement beneath her. For a long moment, she is still, certain that the other girl can feel her presence. She wills her to raise her eyes, to succumb just this once and let her in, but the blonde is immobile, content simply to cry, hiding her face as best as she can. Indomitably compassionate in the face of such obvious pain and determined to get her to surrender, no matter what she has to do, Rachel swallows her uncertainty.

"Quinn," she begins softly, imploring her. "Look at me."

Despite her words, the blonde doesn't move.

It takes every ounce of restrain she possesses not to touch her, to reach out and urge her to meet her eyes. Each passing second, each soft breath, each beat of her heart exhorts her body forward. Restless energy circulates continually inside, thrumming in her hands and limbs. She doesn't mean to be overbearing, but when it is clear that Quinn is unwilling to cooperate, she can't restrain herself any longer. Gently, she extends her hands, just barely allowing them to brush the blonde's hair, entreating Quinn to raise her head. She lets the silky tresses slip through her fingers, lightly cupping her face, and lifting it so that their eyes meet, and a magnetic connection slowly forms between the compassionate chocolate depths and the turbulent ocean of sea foam and sunflower.

As she stares into the endless depths of shimmering hazel before her, falling deeper and deeper with each passing second, she realizes that, now that she finally has her attention, and there is no possible way she could run away, she should be talking. She should be telling her a thousand times over how beautiful and talented and absolutely breathtaking she is, and confessing just how long she's been dreaming of the day she'd get the chance to tell her how she feels, how utterly in love with her she is. She should be spilling every word she's ever scrawled in her diary, every word pounding in her heart, but she is silent. She doesn't know where to start. Despite her years of theatrical training, despite all her supposed bravado and confidence, she doesn't know what to say. There is no script for this moment; no certain ending. Infinite, innumerable words race through her mind, yet none of them cross her lips. She stares into Quinn's eyes for what seems like an eternity, completely at a loss.

The time has come to make a move, and she is frozen. Words have abandoned her.

She has been thrown onto the stage, and for the first time in her life, she chokes.

Rachel Berry does _not_ choke.

Before she knows entirely what she's doing, her hands are brushing past Quinn's face, sliding around the warm curve of her jaw, and the tips of her fingers are sinking into the silken gold of her hair. Slowly, smoldering, a gentle heat consumes her, rising just beneath her skin, flush across her face, deepened and infinitely intensified as Quinn's quivering breath dances against her lips—and then she's kissing her, and it's the most heavenly thing she's ever felt. It is beautiful and breathless and suffocating and electrifying, endlessly exhilarating.

The rush is enough to shut her brain down completely, so ardent with latent passion that the entire world seems to melt away, but soon, it catches up with her. Suddenly, the fantasy world in which she could ever get away with kissing Quinn Fabray is ruptured, and, with a start, she pulls away, cheeks flushed and burning, lips tingling, as if electrically charged. Quinn regards her with wide eyes and a dark blush coloring her tearstained cheeks, pinkened lips trembling and swollen. The way she stares, it feels as though she had never shut her eyes to begin with, shocked into petrified stillness.

Rachel's anxiety nearly stops her heart. _Rachel Berry, what have you done?_

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Okay, so, remember how you used that little button at the bottom of the page to tell me how much you _loved_ the first chapter?

Interesting tidbit. The same button can, in fact, be used to tell me how much you **hated** this one! :]


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